Defiance

Defiance Teaser

It’s a funny thing, conflict.

The cashier was taking an awful long time to ring up her groceries, but Dinah was not one to complain. She had no desire to draw any more attention to herself than was necessary. She took some more furtive glances about her, but saw nothing concerning. Maybe she’d make a clean getaway yet. She turned back to the cashier again, a young, lanky teen with straw colored hair and freckles. Every movement he made seemed to give her an “anywhere-but-here” vibe. She could understand, knowing the feeling more deeply than he could understand, but she wished that he wouldn’t take it out on her. She really didn’t want to meet anyone who would recognize her. ‘Could you hurry it up, please?’ she yearned to say, but choked on it as she always did, and snapped her mouth shut twice as quickly as she’d opened it. The only show of impatience she dared was to cross her arms and drum the bony fingers of her right hand on her left arm, and even this she did so slowly and self-consciously that know one would have noticed her doing it if they’d been looking right at her.

It’s inescapable. Conflict is everywhere. It is inevitable, as much so as night and day and death.

“$40.64,” the cashier said in a faux-casual voice that seemed to beg her to shoot him as he started shoveling her groceries into a plastic bag. What he had to be miserable about, she didn’t know, and at the moment she couldn’t even bother to care, as she tossed two twenty dollar bills and a dollar on the counter, and quickly took the bag from him. “Thank you,” he tried to say cheerfully, and even hitched a small smile on his face, but his brown, bored, indifferent eyes told a different story. Pretending to smile back at him, she took up her bag and made for the door, all in the learned manner of doings things as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself.

It’s a tricky devil too. You might know that it’s coming, being inevitable and all, but you never know where it’s going to hit you from.

“Your change, miss.”

“Keep it.” She swung open the glass door, and the contrast of the mid-morning air from the air conditioned store struck her. She made a mental reminder to leave her car windows open a crack, so it wouldn’t be stifling inside if she decided to use it later. She put her left hand through the loops of the grocery bag, and used her now free hand to rifle through her purse for her keys, still walking towards her car.

It might be the grocer taking a bit too long with your groceries.

Now what did she do with them? She knew she’d put them in her purse. She shook it slightly as she sidled over to her car door, hoping they’d jangle to let her know where they were. The only sound that came from the contents, however, was the dull rustles of old receipts and the clanks of her make-up containers.

It might be your car keys, never being where you were sure they were.

“Dinah?”

She whirled in her surprise, and several strands of her auburn hair swung in her face. Brushing it aside, she saw her fears realized, slowly creeping towards her in a blue floral patterned dress and a wide brimmed sun hat, and worse, with its stern, disapproving, beer-bellied husband in tow. She was a deer in the headlights, and this car wasn’t one to swerve out of the way. “Dinah Bowman, is that you?”

Or it might be something worse.

“Hi there, Mrs. Lawrence.” Dinah patted her right and left pockets, hoping her keys where in there. It wasn’t too late to just clamber in her car and speed away. Where were her goddamn keys?

“Well, I declare,” drawled the elderly woman, wasting no time in laying a hug on Dinah, who pulled away as soon as politely possible. Tilting her head and taking off her glasses, the look she leveled on Dinah made her feel as if she was a slide under a microscope. “It’s been ages since I’ve last seen you, girl. How’ve you been?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Lawrence.” Dinah tore her eyes away from Mrs. Lawrence and scanned the ground, glad to have a reason not to look into the face where she saw pity waiting for her. “It’s all good, except for the fact that my keys seemed to have run out on me.”

“Oh, my,” cooed the old bird, clasping her tender hands together and looking about her. “Check if you see them anywhere, Harold,” she said over her shoulder to her husband, who half-heartedly turned his slight frown about him in disinterest. “Most likely you’ve just dropped ‘em somewhere close.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” said Dinah, straightening up and patting herself down. “I’m just going to run in and see if I left them at the counter.” She was more than ready to rush back in and search every nook and cranny of the store, especially if it meant that she’d be able to brush off these two.

“Oh, you came to buy something, huh?”

“Yeah, just doing a little grocery shopping.”

“Seems a mite far to come just for some groceries, isn’t it?” drawled Mrs. Lawrence, tilting her head in the opposite direction at this question. It was just like her, to trap people in conversation. It was going to take deft deflection to get out of this one, but she was drawing a blank about how to do that right now. Dinah couldn’t help but look at Mr. Lawrence then as a sigh escape him, and saw the angry frown that strangely became him. At least, it did whenever she was around. Ever since it had happened, she’d never again seen him wear anything but a furrowed brow and his lips pursed paper thin.

“It is, but Cliff’s been closed for like a week now, he’s took a trip up north, and the only other store in Site 7 is closed today on account of Chinese New Year.” If Dinah hadn’t needed to get a few essential items for the dinner she was hosting on tomorrow, she wouldn’t have come out here at all. Judging from the glare she knew she was getting from Mr. Lawrence, but was afraid to check to know for sure, he was thinking the same thing. She’d known coming into the heart of the city would be a mistake.

“Seems these Chinese people are just taking over, ain’t it?”

“I guess so.” With someone else, Dinah might’ve said more, but she was hoping to just let the talk die down, and make her excuses quickly. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lawrence spoke up before she got the chance, and changed the topic.

“So, have you heard from your sister?” she said quietly, in what she probably meant to be a sympathetic tone, but nevertheless made Dinah’s pulse quicken. Why didn’t the interfering biddy leave well enough alone?

“Uh, no. No, I haven’t.” Dinah cleared her throat, and chanced another glance at Mr. Lawrence. He was still looking at her with that intent dislike, which seemed to ooze out from his every orifice. Dinah knew that the sudden increase in the temperature had nothing to do with the weather. “I’ve never ... I haven’t heard from her since ... since.”

“Such a horrible thing, just horrible. It’s sad the way it all went down.” Mr. Lawrence scoffed at this, and Dinah felt her throat getting dry. She couldn’t be sure if Mrs. Lawrence was just clueless or she was trying to stir up trouble, but she’d bet all the money in her purse that it was the latter. She was probably faking concern just to get her husband riled up. Lord knows, it was working. “Just breaks my heart.”

Dinah didn’t know what to say to this, and just let the conversation lull again. Maybe this time she’d –

“You never heard where she went?”

This woman would never let her go. “No, I haven’t heard anything, haven’t talked to her or anything. She just disappeared.” Dinah could barely speak; her throat was as taut as a palace guard. She wanted more than anything to just run in any random direction and leave them in her dust. She hated Mrs. Lawrence for prying.

“Poor baby. It must have been rough on her. I hope she’s all right.” Mrs. Lawrence, if she was faking it, was wearing a masterfully precise expression of disappointment, with sorrowful smile and buttery soft voice to boot. She lifted her hands and placed them over her heart, looking at nothing in particular in her reminiscence. “I remember she and Daniel used to pass by our house all the time and give us a holler, holding hands and whatnot. Remember, Harold?”

“I’d rather not.” Again she couldn’t help it, and her face turned to face Mr. Lawrence’s own. His face, sallow with time, was reddening then, and the sound of his clenched teeth almost seemed audible. Dinah could almost see herself as a doe, and there she was in the road as a car just suddenly turned a curve headed her way.

“Harold!” Mrs. Lawrence reproved, and her husband sighed again, and turned his vexed face elsewhere. Another awkward moment passed, and again Mrs. Lawrence whisked away the opportunity for Dinah to excuse herself. “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s just never gotten over it all. Old Sanders and him used to be good friends and -”

“He was no friend of mine!” snapped Mr. Lawrence, and Dinah felt her pulse jump then. This was it; the doe had been struck now. All that was left was for the car to run over her. And knowing Mr. Lawrence, he’d back it up and run her down again. “I’ll be damned ‘fore I hear that sumbitch was any friend of mine.”

“Harold-”

“No, I ain’t gonna be calmed!” he continued, and turned his face back to Dinah. She was thankful then to be next to her car, as her knees felt weakened sufficiently enough to make her lean on it for support thanks to the rage that radiated from the tall, grey-haired balding figure before her, with eyes as hard as the steel of a knife, and twice as sharp. “Them Sanders came and done nothing but left a black mark on this place, and I won’t have no one, not even you, telling me nothing different. You and yours,” he said, point a square, threatening finger at Dinah, “done brought trouble on all our heads and there’s a bunch plots in that there cemetery to remind you o’ that lest you forget.”

“This isn’t my fault,” Dinah said meekly in her defense, knowing that she had no control over what had happened, and also knowing that it wouldn’t matter to him.

“It might as well have been!”

“Harold!”

“You were the ones who brought ‘em here!” he yelled, sending flecks of spit flying over the place. He made to step closer to her, but Mrs. Lawrence stepped in his way, putting both her hands on his feeble chest. “You! Your sister and you! You made them out to be respectable folk, and we trusted them, and we trusted you, and we all paid because of it! It’s just as well as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that there black mark in the square has got your name burned in it!”

Dinah breath had gotten ragged and labored in his speech, and she couldn’t seem to stop blinking. She checked her purse again, frantically this time, for the keys. Cruel and unfair as that accusation was, it didn’t stop the guilt that racked her mind. She could swear she smelt like the filth he thought her to be. Mrs. Lawrence looked torn between feeling sorry for Dinah, and agreeing with what her husband had to say, and compromised by keeping silent for a change.

In the small city of Sage Fields, most people know of only two ways to deal with conflict, and even then only use one way or the other.

“Excuse me, miss, but you left your keys inside.” Dinah swallowed, and turned to face the cashier, holding her keys in his outstretched hand. The latent antagonism she’d sensed in him earlier seemed more pronounced now, in his voice and in his freckled face. She slowly took her weight of her car and leaned forward to take it from his hands, but the keys suddenly fell from his hands to the ground. She looked him in the eye for a second, and saw the same cultured hatred in his eyes that she recognized in Mr. Lawrence’s, and knew that she was not imagining it, because he made no motion to pick up the fallen keys. Smoothing her blouse and brushing a strand of hair away from her face, she stooped to get them, feeling very much like an infidel cowing down at the knees of her superiors.

Thus, there are basically two types of people when it comes to conflict in this tiny place.

“I think it was a mistake to come here,” said Mr. Lawrence, trying to maintain some semblance of calm and rationality. The look of wanting to grind her bones under his teeth was gone, but its place was held by the ever-remaining cold fury.

“I think so too,” Dinah murmured, working her eyes to keep back the tears that threatened to gush from then, and quickly and quietly made her way over to the driver’s side of the car, and got inside.

There are the nails, who just take the punishment heaped on to them. These type of people often just roll with the blows or run away.

She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine turned over, as unobtrusively as its owner. Without further ado, Dinah drove away, with the bitter burn of the sorrow in her throat, and the icy cold of the tears on her cheeks, back to her home on the outskirts of Sage Fields.

There are the hammers, who are often the source of the conflict. The only way they know how to deal is to strike back. Or, as is their preference, to strike first.

Harold watched the little red car glide away, and wished that his regrets and frustration would glide away with it. The feeling of regret was already creeping up on him, and rather than give in to it, he pushed it to the back of his mind, and started to walk away from the scene as fast as his old legs could take him, leaving his wife scampering to catch up with him. Only the cashier was left there then, and he watched the little vehicle drive off into the distance, as if to be sure that it would really go away, before he went back to his post.

* * * * * * * * * *

Most times when there are two extremes, such as the hammer and nail, people are forced to find someplace in the middle, to take a little bit from both sides. However, when it comes to conflict, it more often happens that you’ll find yourself sitting on one side or on the other. In fact, in a quaint place like Sage Fields, it was always that way. There was no in between. You were either a nail, or a hammer.

The bus braked at the little sign next to the old bench, and its doors swung open, creakily as bus doors will do. “Sage Fields, all for Sage Fields,” yelled the conductor, a tan, Hispanic man with greasy, slicked back hair. The few people at the stop crowded the doors, wanting to get some good seats, or judging from the many people on the bus, any seat at all. The conductor stopped them at the door, and made them part as he clambered down the front steps. Behind him came a young man, a spindly teen with reddish brown hair and blue eyes. He looked about at his surroundings with a curious gleam in his eyes.

Another fun fact about conflict: it rarely, almost never, dies, if it doesn’t get a much needed outlet. It just grows stronger with time if you don’t hash it out. And in Sage Fields, they had a mother of a conflict that had no face to lash out at.

He thought it was creepy, the way the breeze seemed to die down, and the clouds seemed to shut out the sun, the moment he stepped off the bus. All flora and fauna seemed to be at rest the very moment he first set foot in this place. Being a sucker for things like fate and destiny, this young man would have probably noticed this strange turn of events, wondering about the trouble it would, if it hadn’t been for the conductor. “These are your bags, you know,” he grunted, as he strained with the suitcases that held the young mans entire life. He flashed the conductor an apologetic smile, bearing the small gap he had in between his front teeth. In a moment, he and the pretty boy conductor had the bags out.

This particular conflict had been something formidable to begin with, and had been left to stew for 14 years.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” said the conductor dismissively, who swung himself on the bus, and leaned out the door as it drove away. The young man watched it go down the dusty road for a while, and turned his attention back to the city before him. ‘If you could call it a city,’ he thought to himself, as he took in the small, light colored houses that screamed lower middle-class. He took this to be representative of what life was like in these parts. Not that he didn’t like it, but this place was more “mosey-on-over” than “starbucks-at-every-corner” to him. He could probably ride a bike from one side to the other in under 10 minutes. Still, it wasn’t with its rustic charms, and the listless colors of the homes and plants still had an inner peace about it.

Now, little did they know, all that was going to change. They finally had an outlet.

Since his bags were too heavy for him to take himself, he went over to a nearby payphone and called information for the number for a cab company. The smooth, monotonous voice gave him the number and he called for a cab, which said that it’d be there in 10 minutes. Why it would take 10 minutes for a cab to get him in this dust bowl, he didn't know. He had nothing left to do but wait, and did so on the uncomfortable bus stop bench, busying himself with the hope that Sage Fields was going to be a good home, or any kind of home for that matter.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the type of outlet they had in mind. You see, this person was not a hammer, and this person was not a nail. This person was something else; something they’d never dealt with before, and wouldn’t know how to deal with when the time came. This person was a spring.